June 30, 2001
Taveuni Island, Fiji

Taveuni Bound


By Lois Joy                     


The bus groans up the hills along the Sunshine Highway, burdened with its heavy load, as we leave Savusavu behind. It is jam packed with Fijians, Indians, luggage and food. The stench of human sweat rolls back to us. We are crammed into the ‘aisle seats’ of the uncomfortable metal benches, stuffed three abreast. I hold on to the handlebars in front of me to steady the jerking and swaying motion while I protecting the daypack containing my camera by hugging it between my legs on the floor. There are no luggage racks on this bus and no under-bus storage either, even though it is the only commuter bus that meets the ferry bound for Taveuni. Since the seats are filled, luggage fills the aisles. The aisle to my left is piled four duffels high; they make a convenient arm rest.

Finally, the bus gasps at the top of the hills, then continues on in an easier mode. The passengers open the windows to catch the welcome breeze from the sea. They begin to relax, talk, and eat. I strike up a conversation with the two Indian boys sitting next to me. The little boy next to the window is munching the last few peanuts from a square woven basket on his lap that is almost as big as he is. His name is Jes. I recognize him as the peanut vendor to whom Gunter had given a 50-cent Fijian coin for a few peanuts, carefully wrapped in a square of cellophane and stapled. We had been his first customer, having arrived early for the bus at 0730. Jes is little and thin, with jet black, closely cropped hair, in a colorful bula shirt and long pants. A budding entrepreneur.

Merely getting on to this crowded bus has been an adventure in itself. The bus was not due to arrive until 0830, so we were at the bus station in plenty of time. We watched the buses arrive, fill up, and depart but none of them said “Taveuni.” Gunter checked with the ticket master. “It is sometimes late,” he said. I smiled and said, “Fiji Time,” and took a few photos. The epitome of a Fijian Grandfather sat across from me under the tin-covered waiting area. He wore a flowered blue bula shirt, a red warrior-print sulu with ‘SAVU SAVU’ in white block letters. He had frizzy gray hair, and carried a walking stick as gnarled as his bare toes that pointed every which way.

Meanwhile, Gunter had been pacing around—a good thing—because he found that our bus was parked —not at the station—but out on the main street, and people were lining up to board. “One hour early and we are late getting on,” he panted as we ran for it with our luggage. We entered the bus to find every seat marked with backpacks or duffels. We stood in the aisle for awhile, then sat down in unoccupied seats, hoping that they weren’t ‘saved.’ More and more bodies piled on: children with dripping candy and ice cream cones; mothers with pillows and babies and diaper bags; burly boys and men hefting huge duffels, rolled up mats, and even packages of yaquona (for making kava). Luggage filled the aisles, and those who came later to ‘reserved’ seats near the back of the bus merely climbed over the seats to their places.

I hoped that whoever had left the small backpack on the seat I was now occupying would be small to match the size of the pack. A young boy came and sat down next to me. “Ah,” I thought. “I’m lucky.” But then wooly-haired Fijian mother with the widest hips I had ever seen appeared at my seat—holding a child, a huge satchel and a blanket! That’s how I ended up with the aisle seat further back with the boys. I had climbed over the seats with my daypack and our snorkeling bag. Gunter still stood in the aisle, fuming. His seat had also been taken. He had gone forward to talk to the driver. “I have a ticket but no seat,” he had grumbled.

“If you want a seat, come back on Wednesday,” the bus driver had answered curtly.

“Just sit down where you are,” I said. Fortunately, there were only two passengers in that seat. They scrunched over toward the window without a word. Gunter piled the rest of our luggage in the aisle.

As the bus clanked along on the ‘Sunshine Highway,’ the mothers began to nurse their babies and the wind continued to blow through the bus from the sea. Gunter cooled off. He turned back to me with a smile, “The beginning of our Taveuni adventure,” he mouthed.

We bumped along though tin-house villages, jungle growth, and copra plantations on a washboard road that shook every joint of my body. With all this shaking going on, many of the passengers were actually going to sleep! Jes, the peanut vendor, slumped over the gigantic handle of his basket. The hefty lady in front of Gunter positioned her pillow against the jumping metal seat in front of her and dozed off. Others with no pillows merely collapsed forward onto themselves, their heads almost resting on their stomachs.

After two long hours, the bus finally rounded a teal, picturesque bay and stopped at the Ferry Landing. Families spread out the blankets they brought and sat down to wait. A vendor sold cold water and juice out of a cooler. Lines formed for the two bathrooms—with toilet seats slung into a corner, dirty rims, and no hooks— workable if one hangs everything around one’s neck and doesn’t touch a thing.

Then the ferry could be seen around the bend and chaos ensued. The teenagers rushed first onto the dock, followed by the burdened-down families. Gunter went into frenzy. “Rush to the front,” he urged. As I walked forward to the narrow part of the landing, a young Fijian man sporting a blue woolen cap rushed by, his huge duffel swinging into me. I almost lost my balance. “Go,” Gunter urged. As the ferry docked, I had managed to sneak through to the front, and ended up behind a mammoth Fijian woman seeing off her young son. After he embarked, she just stood there. “Push,” mouthed Gunter. Instead, I managed to duck underneath her massive arms and was soon inside the ferry. As vertically challenged as I am, I still had to duck to enter the low-roofed passenger compartment. I saved a spot on the bench for Gunter, who followed with our luggage. The benches were soon filled. Families calmly spread out their blankets on the floor. After every surface was filled, the ferry left the dock.

I looked around for life preservers. I didn’t see a one. I figured the ferry was ‘double-booked’ at the minimum, since the ones who did not have seats were about equal to those who did. Fortunately, the waves were not high until we turned into them as we approached Taveuni. Then they sprayed into the open ‘windows’ of the ferry and the occupants of the benches next to them had to pull down the tarp. From then on, the ride became very claustrophobic because there was little light and one could not see the horizon. I would not want to take this voyage during a period of high winds. A storm under these conditions could be catastrophic. After disembarking, I took a photo of the ‘life raft.’ It consisted of two flat sections of boards nailed together!

“Been there, done that,” I sighed as we negotiated for a ride to Susie’s Plantation where we would stay in a bure on ‘Fiji’s Garden Island’ for one week. Needless to say, we took a different, much larger ferry back straight to Savusavu that also eliminated the bus ride. It meant that we had to cut our stay short, since it only came twice a week. But that was fine with us.
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